Black Dahlia
by letmefallasleep
Summary: What could turn a child into Tig? And what sort of person could tie Tig down? What would that person be like? And what would happen if two people equally screwed in the head, from things in their past-met up? Obviously Tig/OFC. Warnings/Summary inside
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I was in my truck, listening to Hollywood Undead's 'Black Dahlia', when I had a burst on inspiration for this. I found myself wondering, what could turn a child into a person like Tig? And what sort of person could tie Tig down? What would that person be like? And what would happen if two people -equally screwed in the head, from things in their past -met up? This wouldn't be so much a club related fic, with only minor parts of the club coming through. Again, wanted to focus on what sort of relationship Tig could have with a woman. This will be angsty, with mentions of child abuse, and sexual abuse, a lot of violence, a lot of language, and a lot of substance/alcohol abuse. A lot of Tig background, maybe a few other Sons thrown in, but mostly focusing on Tig and my OFC. Basically, this is like a teaser, just to see if anyone is even interested in something like this. So if you are, please let me know, otherwise I won't continue.

Also, this chapter would be the only one focusing on their meeting... more like a background, if you will. If people like it, and I continue, it would jump straight into Tig and her being together, a few years after this takes place, with a few flashbacks.

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><p>It had surprised everyone. Nobody ever expected to see <em>Tig's<em> crow landing on someone. Much less that the crazy bastard would make the crazy bitch his Old Lady.

And she wasn't even a _good_ Old Lady. At least, not in most men's sense of the term. Old Ladies kept house, cooked meals, maybe popped out a brat or two. Tig's Old Lady didn't do any of that. Hell, Tig himself had warned them that eating her food would most likely result in food poisoning, if they could even choke it down. Tig's little apartment had gotten messier, not cleaner, when the crazy broad moved in.

And it hadn't helped, her being an ex-pro, and the daughter of a dead member of another MC down in San Bernardino. It was just… _weird_.

There had been a lot of mocking, questions, and a few downright mean comments, before Gemma had stepped in. Told them all that if they didn't shut their fuckin' mouths, she'd be glad to shut it for them. Word was, she'd made Clay sleep on the couch for a week, and cook his own meals, until he'd agreed to back off. Which in turn, lead to Clay threatening to start breaking bones if the other guys didn't straighten up, since Gemma held him responsible for 'his boys', and had threatened more couch time if she heard a peep about it.

Her name was Miranda Balcom, and she wasn't even Tig's normal type. She was barely five feet tall, with c-cup tits, and a mess of curly black hair, and pale white. She was barely twenty when they had first met, and Tig pushing onto forty, yet another thing the boys didn't get. Sweet butts were supposed to be young –_hell that was the point_ –but Old Ladies were… well, at least old enough not to be your daughter.

No one understood any of it.

Their meeting had been pure happenstance. Started with a pissed off john, and went from there.

* * *

><p>"Get back here, you cunt!"<p>

Miranda wasn't about to stop, or even waste the breath to shoot back an insult of her own. She'd seen a lot of her 'co-workers' get the crap beat out of 'em for slowing down to retort.

She never should have let him bring her to the small, ho dunk town. She had no idea where she was, and of course, most shit was closed.

A flash of hope ran through her, as she saw what looked to be an automotive shop with the lights on. She cut a quick left, shaking her high heels off her feet as she did, and fast as lightening, jumped the fence, and kept moving towards the shop.

"Help me!" She yelled, banging on the large shop doors. "_Please_!"

"Hey, what the hell is goin' on out there?" Came an angry male voice. Miranda turned towards it, and dashed over to the smaller door off to the side.

"Please, you gotta help me," She said breathlessly, before yelping as she glanced over her shoulder, and seen the large john had cleared the fence. She ducked behind the tall, stocky man, peering fearfully over his shoulder.

"Come here, you bitch!"

"You skip out on the deal, sweet cheeks?" The man asked over his shoulder, taking in her mini skirt and tube top. Miranda shook her head.

"No! Guy didn't even pay me! Just started slappin' me around," She said quickly.

The overweight john stopped short when he seen Miranda hiding behind the other man.

"Look, this ain't none of your business, buddy. Just give me a girl, and we can call it a night."

Miranda's savior looked the man up and down, the scorn clear on his face. "Get lost, fatty."

"We had a deal, you cunt!"

"You beatin' the hell outta me wasn't part of the fuckin' deal!" Miranda spat, ducking behind her savior again as the john's eyes popped out of his head, the veins bulging in his neck.

"Hey! Get outta here, before I throw you out!" Her savior snapped. "You're on MC property; you really wanna fuck around?"

The john hesitated for a few moments, before –cussing his big fat lungs out –he turned around, and went back over the gate.

Miranda's sigh of relief was cut short, as the tall man turned his cold grey eyes on her.

"Get inside!" He snapped. "Christ, you two probably woke up half the fuckin' neighborhood."

Miranda obeyed meekly, figuring at the very least, she owed the man a blow job and a quickie for saving her from the crazy psychopath who'd been chasing her. She stopped by the desk, and then turned.

"Look, I appreciate what you did… How do you want it?" She forced out quickly, before she could lose her nerve. Taking a look at the guy in the light, he was a hundred times more intimidating than the john had been.

He was tall, really tall. Maybe 6'1", or 6'2", with thick arms like tree trunks extending out of the black leather vest he wore. A full head of curly dark hair set just above a well chiseled face, and those beautiful, ice cold eyes.

The guy looked her over for a minute, before gruffly asking, "What's your name, kid?"

"Randy. And I ain't a kid," She said sullenly.

"Randy?"

Miranda sighed. "It's short for Miranda. Look, call me whatever you want, alright? Let's do this, so I can get back, otherwise my pimp's gonna kill me."

"Sit down," The man said curtly, moving over to a large cabinet in the corner. Miranda's heart nearly leaped through her chest in fear, but he returned carrying a first aid kit.

"What happened?" He asked slowly, tending to the cuts and bruises on her face first. Surprisingly, his large, rough hands were incredibly gentle as he cleaned the dirt out of the cut on her forehead.

"He wanted to go back to his place. My pimp said it was cool, so he took me to his house. Went inside, and he just started wailin' on me. So I ran," She said with a shrug. "I don't mind it rough, but he was just beatin' on me."

"Your pimp, huh? Where's he runnin' you out of?"

"Up in Lodi. We ain't welcome in Charming, in case you haven't heard. The…" Miranda's eyes went huge, as she remembered what the man had said about MC property. "Oh shit! Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean… I didn't know this was… Fuck, I'm sorry, I'll go, I didn –"

"Quit squirmin', will ya? Christ, I ain't gonna kill ya for goin' to the only place in town with lights on," The man said, his voice clearly annoyed as he pushed her back down into the chair. "I'll get you patched up, and you can run back to your 'daddy'. Here, take your jacket off for a minute," He said in a tone that left no room for arguing.

Miranda obeyed quickly, setting the red pleather garment on the chair behind her, going to sit down, when the man stopped her. She froze as his hands went to the base of her neck, and then picked up the back of her shirt. She knew he was looking at the tattoo.

"That's some serious ink there, Randy. Looks like MC ink," He said conversationally. "War Boys?"

Miranda nodded slowly, trying to keep from shaking as the man traced over the huge tattoo that covered her back with his hand.

"Yeah. My pop was part of the MC down there 'fore he died."

"Long way from San Bernardino, babe," He observed.

"Yeah well, I don't really have time to spill my guts here. As it is, I've gotta figure out how to make the forty mile trip back to Lodi in the next two hours, or you might as well have handed me over to that fuck ass."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty four," Miranda lied smoothly.

The man scoffed. "Uh huh. And I'm Mohammed Ali. Come on, how old are you?"

Miranda rolled her eyes a bit, before finally answering, "Twenty. I swear," She added, seeing the incredulous look on his face.

"Right. I'm Tig, by the way," He said, as he closed up the kit, and observing his handiwork. "Not too bad. Shouldn't scar too much."

Miranda rolled her eyes again. "Yeah, it might distract from the other ones."

The man –Tig, she reminded herself –sighed, looking her up and down, before motioning towards the garage. "Come on," He said, his voice gruff again. "I'll take ya back up to Lodi."

Miranda froze halfway in the act of standing. "Look, mister, I appreciate the offer, but I ain't got any cash, and my pimp isn't gonna let me do nothin' for a Samcro member."

"Jesus, kid, you're half my age, and you're beat to hell. I ain't lookin' to fuck you, alright? Jesus… You ain't even my type," He said scornfully, opening up one of the large garage doors.

Miranda tried to hide her relief, as she cheekily asked, "So what is your type?"

"Big boobied blondes. What was your old man's name?" He asked, as he motioned for her to jump on the bike behind him.

Miranda hesitated, before sliding her leg over, and getting comfy. Was just like riding a bike, she thought with a rue smile, as she wrapped her arms around Tig's mid-section. Although it was a little bit harder wearing a mini-skirt.

"Donny Balcom. Most people just called him Caf though."

Tig turned and looked at her in surprise. "You're Caf Head's kid?"

"Yeah. You knew my pop?"

Tig shrugged as he started rolling the bike out of the garage. "Knew of him. Only met him a few times, long time ago. Same job title, and all that. Didn't know he'd died. Sorry."

"Yeah well, it was six years ago. Hey, you mind if we grab my heels? They're just outside the fence."

"Sure kid, no problem. Just lemme close everything up, and we can go. You still remember how to hold up a bike?"

She couldn't resist sticking her tongue out at him, and he laughed as he got off the bike.

Damn. She had forgotten how heavy they were. She held it upright, but the weight of it had caused her to fumble a bit.

When Tig came back, he stopped a few feet away from the bike, and stared for a moment, arms crossed across his chest, head tilted slightly to the side.

"You mind tellin' me how the daughter of a War Lords Sergeant at Arms ends up turning tricks in Lodi?" He finally asked, not moving from where he stood.

Miranda rolled her eyes. "Long story."

Tig grinned. "Well seeing as how you owe me one… consider this my payment. Must have at least an hour, right?"

Miranda sighed. "I ain't tellin' it holdin' up this fuckin' bike," She finally grumbled.

Tig laughed again as he reached over her to set the kickstand down, and she got off, smoothing her skirt down as she did, before cursing loudly.

"What?" Tig asked, tensing up, his eyes glancing around the parking lot.

"That fuckin' shit head! I left my purse at his house!" She buried her face in her hands. "Adam's gonna fuckin' kill me."

"That your pimp?"

Miranda dropped down on the picnic table, nodding. "Yeah. Had all my night's earnings, my cigarettes, and… My dad's lighter. Only thing I got from him," She admitted.

"How'd he die, anyways?"

Miranda drummed her fingers on the table nervously. "You got a smoke? I don't like talkin' without a cigarette." When Tig handed her one, and flicked the lighter close to her face, she slowly inhaled, feeling the tension easing a bit.

After a few more drags, she pulled her feet up underneath her, and said, "You ever heard of the League of Aryan Nationalists?"

Tig thought for a moment, before shaking his head. "Nah. Don't think so."

"It's a skin-head group. All legal, across the board, respectable men. Didn't approve of the War Boys sellin' guns to the Mexican gangs. In one of the raids on their meth labs, one of 'em shot my pop. He lingered in the hospital a few days, before my mother showed up, and dragged me up to Lodi. Pop died a few days later. A few members of the club tried lookin' in on me up in Lodi, makin' sure I was okay, but they stopped when my ma started callin' the cops on 'em. Think they set me up some sort of trust fund or somethin'," She said with a shrug. "Was a long time ago."

Tig blew a ring of smoke from his cigarette. "Where's your ma stand with the hookin' shit?"

Miranda frowned as she stood. "What is this, question the hooker day? Look, I'll give you the fuck of your life if that's what you want, but this talkin' shit… I can recommend a few good therapists if you want someone to talk to," She said scornfully. "My shit is my shit."

Tig grinned. "Not if you want a ride to Lodi it isn't."

"I'll walk," Miranda spat, moving towards the gate.

"Alright. Hopefully that john ain't waitin' for ya somewhere. Shouldn't get too cold tonight, although you're definitely gonna feel it in that mini. But hell, it's only a three to four hour walk, right?"

"I'll call a cab," She said through gritted teeth, hating the smug look on his face.

"With what money?" He taunted.

"Fuck!"

"So, you were sayin' about how your mother feels?"

* * *

><p>She'd given him the fuck of a life time, rather than tell him; all rough, hard, and fast. She really was the fuck of a life time. He'd decided to let well enough alone, and had driven her back, although his curiosity had nearly killed him.<p>

Of course, it hadn't happened over night. Wasn't exactly 'slow', but it had taken two weeks before he'd gone looking for her again. Another month and a half before he'd started bringing her back to the club for the night. Two months after that, he'd actually invited for her to hang out for a while.

After that, though, things had fallen into place relatively quickly. She'd started hanging around the shop, helping Gemma with paperwork and shit; one of the few things she was relatively good at, seeing as how she'd helped the War Boy's president's Old Lady keep their mechanic shop in order. Once in a while, she'd venture out to see him, hand him tools or what not, before making her way back in after a bit.

They didn't talk much. Well, to each other at least. Few people ever seen them talk, other than the occasional insult thrown back and forth, or small conversation about the vehicle he was working on.

But it seemed to work for them.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Alright, so it didn't get the reviews I wanted, but I personally like this story, and a few people have added it to their lists so... eh. Anyways, if you got past the first chapter, I'll go a little more in-depth with the warnings.

This will eventually have graphic sexual scenes, with a spattering of bondage, S&M, and general rough sex between two consenting adults. While I don't intend for this to be a titillating story, my goal is to explore further into the fractured minds of adults, who as children have dealt with different forms of abuse. I've always been fascinated by Tig's character, and have often wondered about his childhood, so my idea of his life before SAMCRO will come up in flashbacks, or maybe even a few chapters dedicated to it at random intervals. There will be graphic physical abuse, and implied, non-graphic sexual abuse of children, so if that bothers you, please leave now. There will be NO graphic sexual scenes involving a child -consenting, or otherwise -so if that's what you're looking for, you're a perv, and get lost.

This isn't a typical feel-good lovey dovey romance story. Tig and Randy aren't 'sweet', 'gentle', 'soft', or 'caring' with each other. But part of the point of this story is to show that sometimes, love is what you make it.

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><p>Tig couldn't help the grin that came to his face as he watched Randy walk back into the office. The other guys couldn't stop noticing all the things she <em>wasn't<em> long enough to notice what she _had_. Yeah, he'd never went for anything below a double D tit before, but Randy's were so… _Mmmmhhhhhmmmm_. He shivered a bit at the thought. And that ass. Damn if that wasn't one of the finest, firmest, most beautiful asses he'd ever seen. While she didn't have movie star good looks, she had an almost pixie like face. Like a younger, smaller version of Cyndi Lauper.

Gemma had taken her to get some new clothes. While Tig missed the short skirts, and tight belly shirts, he could understand where Gemma was coming from. Didn't look too good to have a hooker working in the office at Teller-Morrow. He could just see how that shit would land with the Feds, who were already on their ass about guns. Didn't need them thinking the club was running hookers on the side.

And he definitely couldn't disagree with Gemma's choice in clothes, he thought with another grin, as he openly leered at his Old Lady's ass in those tight, dark wash jeans that hugged her ass, with knee high boots that just seemed to make her never-ending legs even better. The hipster jeans and the high-riding shirt worked together enough to show off his crow, tramp-stamped on her back, right below her old War Boys tattoo.

He'd spent hours with Happy, going over that tattoo. Tig couldn't draw worth a shit –_and a good thing too, what a pussy thing to do, with all due respect to his Nomad counterpart_ –but he knew what he wanted, and Happy had lost his temper more than once at the exacting perfection Tig had demanded.

But it had been worth it. Hell, he could still see most of it from halfway across the yard. Not that he needed to; he'd traced that tattoo so many times, he could probably give her the damn tattoo all over again in his sleep. The midnight black of the crow, with its wings outstretched to reach around to the front of her hips, a thin, silver chain draped over its neck, that hung down to wrap around its feet, which held a Remington 870 pump action shotgun in its talons. The ruby red eyes of the bird… the spattered blood over the whole design… The skulls littered underneath the Crow… He knew most of his brothers thought it was scary looking. Hell, Gemma had talked to him about putting such a 'fucked up design on such a small, young thing', the disapproval clear in her tone and the dirty glances she still gave him whenever she seen it, even two years later.

Randy _loved_ it. The only time she ever covered it was when it was cold, and she wore a full length jacket. Otherwise, she showed it off proudly.

Then again, she was the only one other than Tig who knew what everything represented. To him. To her. To them as a couple.

_Speaking of…_ He couldn't resist.

"Hey, bitch!" He called out, just as Randy reached the office doors. His grin grew wider –threatening to split his face –at the hellfire and brimstone look in her eyes.

"What the fuck do you want now?" She asked, exasperatedly.

"Get me a beer!"

Her eyes narrowed, as she grabbed a can from the cooler sitting by the garage doors, and slowly sauntered towards him, her hips rolling from side to side as she made her way closer, that teasing, seductive look on her face, with those full, pouty red lips, that he just wanted to wrap around his dick.

She stopped a few feet away from him, crossing her arms underneath her pert breasts, one hip cocked out, a few strands of hair in her face, as she tapped her booted foot against the pavement.

"Gonna bring me my beer?" He asked, his voice gravelly.

"Depends on what I'm gonna get later," She said with a casual shrug, cracking open the beer, and taking a sip of it, her eyes never leaving his.

Tig's smile turned dark, as he pulled her closer, grinding his hips into hers. "That depends on how bad you've been today, bitch."

Randy flashed him a dark smirk in return, before dropping the beer can on the ground. "Oops," She said, her voice low and enticing, as she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him tighter against her. "What're you gonna do about it?"

Tig glanced around, and seen that Opie and Juice at the very least were staring at them, Opie shaking his head, and Juice staring wide-eyed, mouth hanging open.

"You wait 'til I get you home," He threatened, grabbing her ass hard enough to leave bruises. "Teach you for wastin' good beer."

"I'll hold you to that, Trager," She whispered in his ear, before pulling away.

Tig let her go, seeing the smile that adorned her lips. Unlike her seductive act, it was pure animal lust that played across her face now, as she walked backwards away from him, her eyes glued to his, forest green meeting icy gray.

She only held his gaze for a few seconds. She wasn't dumb enough to walk across the shop lot backwards. She spun around, and Tig knew she put a little extra 'oomph' to her swinging hips as she sashayed back to the office, slamming the door shut behind her as she disappeared into the building.

He watched the door for a few minutes, before looking up, and seen Juice still staring. His brows furrowed, as he snapped, "What? You want some of this cock too, Juicey?"

The youngest club member blushed beet red –_an interesting trick, given his dark skin,_ Tig thought absently –before turning, and heading back into the garage.

"Ya know, ya jus' a wee bit harsh on the lad. I got half a stiffy me self."

"Fuck!" Tig swore, spinning around to see Chibs' grinning face on the other side of the car. He'd forgotten the Scotsman was there. "What the fuck, man? You know I hate it when you do that creepy ninja shit."

His best friend smirked. "Ninja shite? I'm surprised if ya heard me drop a bomb on ya, with all the blood rushin' ta ya… 'head'."

"Hey, go get your own Old Lady, you foreign fuck," Tig said good-naturedly, chucking his grease covered rag over the car the other man. "Then you can stop eavesdroppin' on me an' Randy."

"Oh, come on now. We both know you two love a good audience."

"Ha ha. Get back under the fuckin' car. Seein' as how we both know it's gonna be the only thing you're under," Tig retorted, turning his attention back to the engine.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Alright, so thank you to everyone who's read, and special thanks to those who have reviewed. I really appreciate it! Already half through the next chapter, so maybe later tomorrow night I'll have it posted. Thanks for reading! :D

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><p>Randy was still smiling as she slammed the door to the office closed behind her, glancing up at Gemma as the older woman raised her eyebrows at her.<p>

"What's up, Gemma?" Randy asked, unable to wipe the smile off her face, even though she knew what the other woman was thinking, even before she spoke.

"You know… Most women would have a problem with their men talkin' to 'em like that," The Matriarch of Samcro said, her voice deceptively casual. "Or havin' their men dry hump 'em in the middle of the parking lot."

Randy shrugged as she sat down in front of the filing cabinets, picking up another box of old folders. She had spent the past six months trying to get the paperwork –some of it from thirty years ago –in some sort of neat and orderly fashion in those damn filing cabinets.

"I'm not most women."

Gemma nodded. "I can see that."

Randy rolled her eyes at Gemma's tone. "Look, Gemma… I appreciate your concern, I really do. But I don't mind. I don't need the lecture about not letting my man walk all over me. Tig and I are fine."

Randy sighed as Gemma shrugged, and turned back to the paperwork on the desk.

How to explain her relationship with Tig? Hell, she didn't really understand it herself. Even as she thought back to their brief interlude in the parking lot, she felt herself tingling all over, remembering the way his arms had grabbed her tightly, forcing her closer… How his large, rough hands had squeezed into her ass, giving her that delicious sensation of pleasure and pain at the same time.

How did she explain to the older woman that she _needed_ that? That Tig knew _exactly_ what she needed, and kept on giving it to her? The mixture of pain and pleasure that Randy couldn't live without?

How to explain that Tig needed it just as much as she did? Some of the fucked up shit they had done in the bedroom? How to explain how gently and tenderly Tig held her after tying her down, and fucking her so hard she could barely stand?

Hell, she couldn't even explain it to herself. All she knew was that it worked, and for the first time in her very short life, she finally felt _loved_. Needed, wanted, accepted, and safe. Tig gave her all of that, and asked little in return.

Not all of their relationship was like what had happened in the parking lot. While they never exactly had 'normal' moments, like going to the movies, or out to a nice restaurant for dinner, she would admit nothing in her life had ever been normal. And with Tig, she suddenly found herself not caring what 'normal' was. She loved what they had: ordering pizza and Chinese to eat while watching UFC or porn –both of which had the same effect on them – or the nights when they would chase each other through the playground, ending with him screwing her on the merry-go-round, or the swings. Whatever they did, it suddenly became _their_ normal.

But whatever they were doing –whether it be screwing each other's brains out, or sharing a quiet moment on the couch watching the game –suddenly became exactly what it was that she wanted, exactly what she needed at that moment.

She didn't mind what had happened in the parking lot. Had enjoyed the stares, to be perfectly honest. She wondered if Tig had known that Chibs was just on the other side of the car, staring at the two of them with a huge grin through-out their whole moment. Probably not, she decided. While Tig wasn't exactly shy, he didn't like sharing. While she figured he wouldn't get mad at the Scotsman –they were best friends after all, and Chibs was a close friend of hers as well –he wouldn't have done it if he'd known Chibs was there.

She almost laughed as she remembered the look on Juice's face as she walked back towards the shop. Priceless. There were times when the Puerto Rican's innocence was cute; those were the times when she went out of her way to tease. Other times, she found herself shaking her head, wondering where the kid had grown up.

Light years away from her and Tig, that was for damn sure.

"Do you two ever actually talk to each other?"

Randy looked up in surprise, pulled out of her reverie, by Gemma's question. "What?"

"Do you two ever have real conversations? Or is it all about the sex?" The older woman asked, seemingly genuinely curious.

Randy shrugged. "Yeah we talk. I mean, we don't sit down and discuss Shakespeare over a glass of wine, but we talk."

"Do these talks ever not include the words 'bitch', 'asshole', 'bastard'?" Gemma asked sardonically.

Randy sighed impatiently. "Yes, Gemma, sometimes we have real conversations. I know how surprising that is –what with me being an ex-hooker, and him being a pervert dating a girl young enough to be his daughter –but we do other things other than just fuck," She said sharply.

Gemma's eyes narrowed, and Randy instantly regretted her flash of temper.

"Don't get lippy with me, honey. I'll knock the lippy right outta you, you get me? I've known that boy my whole fuckin' life, and I won't hesitate to put you in your place if I think you're hurtin' him. I ain't tryin' to butt into your life, but I want to make sure the two of you are doin' okay. I care about him, and since he cares about you, that makes you family. And that means more than just comin' to holiday dinners and shit," Gemma said, rolling her eyes.

Randy forced her face into what she hoped was a suitably meek expression. "I'm sorry, Gemma. It's just… It's hard to explain. Especially with… them," She said vaguely, waving her hand in the general direction of the garage.

Gemma's eyes softened a bit. "They ain't still givin' you shit, are they?"

"The men aren't. But they still don't understand it. They're not sure if they're supposed to treat me like a sweet butt, an Old Lady, or Tig's 'hooker'," She said bitterly. "The women… well, most of 'em… after that whole thing with Kayla… They don't openly fuck with me anymore, but…" Randy shrugged helplessly.

"There's a lot of ways to hurt you that don't result in fist fights," Gemma finished quietly.

Randy pulled herself together, and shook herself a bit. "It doesn't matter though," She said firmly. "At the end of the day, they're just Sweet Butts. I got the guy in the end… As for the other Old Ladies… Hell, I got the _best_ guy in the end," She said fiercly. "And ain't none of them can take that away from me."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Alright, so we're delving a little bit more into the dark side of the story. So... yeah, this isn't exactly a pleasant chapter. You've been warned.

* * *

><p>"You okay?"<p>

Tig glanced over at Randy. She was sprawled out on the bed, stomach down, as she stretched like a cat, with an evil grin.

He shook his head clear, moving away from the window where he'd been standing, and laid down next to her on the bed, pulling her against him in a spooning position.

"Yeah. I'm fine. Are _you_ okay?" He asked quietly, running his hands gently over the welts and rope burns.

"Beyond okay, Tigger," She purred, sitting up. "Hey, you want somethin' to eat?"

Tig pulled her back down next to him, wrapping his arm around her tightly as he buried his face in her thick brown hair. "No. Let's just stay like this for a while."

_What the hell was wrong with him_, he wondered as he gently massaged her wrists, which still had a purplish tint to them. He was beyond fucked in the head; _somebody should lock him up for what he was doing_. Even now, as he stared at those marks, he could feel his dick getting hard again. He wanted to do it again. _Tie her down, and fuck and beat her until she screamed for mercy._ What kind of sick animal was he?

Never mind that Randy enjoyed it. After everything that had happened to her, poor kid wouldn't know '_normal_' or '_healthy_' if it bit her in the ass. Not that she'd ever told him what happened, but anybody with half a brain could guess. For somebody coming from a similar situation, it was obvious.

Somebody had done a good job of fucking her up before she got to him, yeah, but he wasn't exactly helping any. If he really loved her, he'd send her packing, with money for a good therapist. Get her out before she ended up like him.

His arms tightened around her again. The thought of her leaving damn near drove him over the edge. He couldn't let her go.

"Tig, what's wrong?" Randy asked quietly, pulling him out of his reverie, as she turned to face him, running her hand down his face softly. "Are you okay?"

He couldn't meet her big green eyes, so full of love and concern. _God, what the fuck was wrong with him?_

He turned, and rolled off the bed, grabbing his clothes as he moved towards the bathroom.

"I've gotta get to the shop, babe. I'll be back later," He muttered.

"You want me to go with you?" She asked, and the confused, hurt tone in her voice threatened to break him.

"No. Nah, just some club shit. You just hang around here." Right before he closed the bathroom door, he finally met her gaze. "Just take it easy today, alright?"

* * *

><p>The water was hot enough to scald him as he stepped into the shower. He started scrubbing agitatedly, as if he could scrub the<em> fucked up<em> away.

He wasn't sure when it had first started. The desire to hurt, control, abuse during sex. Most women wouldn't put up with it more than once.

He knew he'd been young. The hours spent, standing in the corner of his bedroom, no heat, no light, no moving, until his mother told him he could move… He could remember filling those hours with images of doing to his mother what she did to him. Tying _her_ down, beating _her_ with whatever was handy, and leaving _her_ there in a mess of blood and vomit for hours.

The logical, rational part of his brain knew Randy wasn't his mother. And whether or not she liked it, Randy didn't deserve what he did to her. _No more than he'd deserved it as a child_.

He smashed his hand into the wall, hard enough to crack the tile.

* * *

><p>"Alex!"<p>

Nine year old Alex Trager shuddered at the drunk rasp of his mother's voice. It was always bad when his mom drank.

He knew better than to move though. Not until she told him to. He'd learned that quickly enough. Just because she called him, didn't mean he was supposed to move, or speak. Until she gave him a specific order, he was to stand still, hands behind his back, face to the corner of the wall. _Didn't matter how cold it was. How dark it was. Don't move._

"Where the fuck are you, boy?"

_Don't move. Don't speak. Don't think._

"Alex, come here!"

That was what he'd been waiting for. He shook out his arms, as he moved towards the other end of the house, moving the plastic that served as the door to his bedroom aside.

"Yes, mama," He said, voice monotone as he stood before her. Kimberly Trager sat on the couch, a cloud of cigarette –or maybe weed –smoke around her head. He could tell she'd just gotten home; her hair was done up, and the hooker make up was still on.

"How long you been there?" She asked after a few minutes of looking him up and down.

"Seven hours, mama."

"Why'd I make you stand over there again?"

_Trick question. Her eyes are still focused; she's not drunk or high enough for him to lie to her. _"Dropped my glass on the floor, mama."

She nodded, clearly satisfied, before reaching out, and grabbing Alex by his messy, tangled hair.

"You gonna make that mistake again, boy?"

Alex winced, fighting off the desire to rise to his tiptoes to try and ease the pressure; she'd just yank him higher and harder. "No, mama."

"Did you move while I was gone?"

"No, mama!" Alex exclaimed, the first hints of fear entering his voice.

"You better not have, you little shit. Go get my bag," She said scornfully, throwing him towards the kitchen.

He had to obey, he knew that. He wasn't stupid enough to disobey. But he shook with fear the whole way, knowing something bad, _something painful_, would happen after his mother had ingested whatever drugs she happened to have in her purse. It was always worse right after she took her drugs.

But he dutifully brought it to her anyways.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Alright guys, sorry the update took so long. First I had writer's block, then I haven't been home in a week, so... yeah, sorry. But anyways, here's the next chapter, and I hope you enjoy! :D

* * *

><p>"Tigger?"<p>

Tig nearly smashed his head against the wall, Randy's voice pulling him from his reverie.

"What?" He called back out sharply.

"Clay's here. Wanted me to tell you he's waitin'."

Shit. He quickly shut the water off, and stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around himself as he opened the bathroom door a bit.

"Tell him I'll be out in ten. Just gotta get dressed," He muttered, glancing around for his clothes.

"They're in the chair," Randy said with a smile. She'd gotten dressed –he used the term loosely –in a pair of booty shorts and one of his t-shirts that she seemed to swim in. "Your cut's in the kitchen. I've got coffee brewing."

He gave her a quick kiss, resisting the urge to drop his towel, and get a quick blow job, and closed the door, moving towards the sink to brush his teeth.

It was exactly eleven minutes later when Tig walked into the kitchen, grabbing his cut off the back of the chair, and the Styrofoam coffee cup out of Randy's hand, giving her a quick kiss.

"I'll call you when I know something," He said simply, giving her a large grin as he playfully squeezed her ass.

"Oh Jesus, man, at least _act_ like you care that I'm sittin' here," Clay muttered, moving towards the door.

Tig ignored the older man, who walked out of the apartment, as he gulped down the coffee, and chucked the cup in the trash. "When I get back, I was thinkin' we could go out and do somethin'."

Randy grinned. "I'd rather stay here and 'do something'," She said mischievously.

"Ha ha. You know, people are gonna start thinkin' I'm holdin' you captive in here if they don't see you out and around," He said with a forced laugh, purposely not looking at her arms or ankles. She went to speak, but he shut her up with another kiss, this one longer as they played tonsil hockey for a few minutes, before he pulled back, grinning at the breathless look on her face. "I'll be back."

He frowned as he closed the apartment door behind him, and seen Clay talking in hushed tones on his phone. The older man seen him come out, and whispered something else, before hanging up.

"Ready to roll?"

"Who was on the phone?" Tig asked suspiciously, ignoring the older man's question.

"Just Gemma. She's worried about Jax and his ex. Apparently the crank whore is pregnant."

Tig nodded, and gave the customary condolences, along with a few threats of what he could do if Jax needed it…

But he knew it was bullshit. Clay had already mentioned that to him, almost a week ago. Jax was mostly non-committal about the whole thing, and Gemma and Tig had already discussed it.

He snorted as he climbed on his bike. Hell, Gemma had probably told him before she told Clay. Shit, they'd probably discussed it more, and already decided on a plan of action before Clay had any idea that Jax and Wendy were having problems.

But whatever it was that that was making his President be all sneaky, he'd let it go. The man had his whole-hearted loyalty… as long as he was married to Gemma, that is.

* * *

><p>Randy stretched out, her back still sore, as she grabbed the remote from in between the cushions, and clicked the TV on. It was her day off from the shop, and she'd planned on having Tig home. Of course, it rarely ever worked out that way, she thought as she flicked through the list of horrible day time TV shows. Law &amp; Order SVU… CSI… She scoffed as she hit the soaps. Days of Our Lives, One Tree Hill…<p>

Ugh. She didn't bother to get up and check the movie rack. Most of it was pornos, and the few other movies were mostly stupid action movies with no plot.

She sighed. She supposed she could try and get some house work done. They weren't out of clean clothes yet –which was her usual prerequisite for doing the laundry –but it was definitely better than watching soaps. Hell, even doing the dishes would be better than soaps.

She was in the middle of folding the first set of clean clothes, when there was a firm knock on the door. Since she wasn't expecting anyone, she grabbed the 9MM off the end table, and moved to the door, peering through the peep hole.

"Open the damn door, Randy."

Randy frowned, but opened the door, revealing an angry looking Gemma, who pushed in, and closed the door behind her.

"Hi, Gemma," Randy said sarcastically. "Come on in. Make yourself at home."

Gemma was staring her up and down. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, she finally spoke.

"Tig do that to you?"

Randy looked at her in confusion. "Do what?"

"This!" Gemma snapped, grabbing Randy's wrist.

Randy laughed uneasily, pulling her hand away. "Relax, Gemma. He didn't do nothin' I didn't ask him too. And I enjoyed every second of it."

Gemma stared at her like she was stupid, disbelief written all over the older woman's face. "Are you serious? Jesus, what the hell is wrong with you two?"

Randy stiffened halfway in the act of grabbing a beer, before standing up, and eyeballing Gemma. "Look, Gemma, no offense? But mine and Tig's sex life… it's really none of your Goddamned business.


	6. NOTE

Hey guys. Unfortunately, I've decided to take a short hiatus from writing for a while. I have a million other things going on right now, trying to build my chicken coop, get my garden set, finish turning the upstairs of my garage into an apartment, my two martial arts classes… You get the basic idea. I will continue to work on things in my spare time, maybe even a few new one shots or something, but I won't be posting for at least a month, maybe two, until I get some of my spring projects finished. Sorry, and I know I just took a hiatus in December, but… eh. Thanks for all your reviews, and patience with me, and I promise, I'll make it worth your wait once I start posting again.

~Ashley


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Alright, yes, very short, I'm terribly bad, for writing something so short after so long without an update, but... well... I is stuck. So this is to try and get me over the writer's block for this one...

* * *

><p><em>Randy stiffened halfway in the act of grabbing a beer, before standing up, and eyeballing Gemma. "Look, Gemma, no offense? But mine and Tig's sex life… it's really none of your Goddamned business.<em>

Randy was surprised when Gemma got in her face, and backed her up against the fridge.

"Listen here, you little whore. Everything that goes on in this club is my business, you get me? So if I ask you a Goddamned question, you fucking answer it, or I'll whoop you so hard, your ass will land back in Lodi, and even your pimp won't wanna piece of it."

Randy shrunk back. "I'm sorry, Gemma," She muttered. "I just… Look, Tig and me are… we're fine, okay? It's not a big deal. This is… It's complicated."

Gemma nodded satisfactorily, backing off, and sitting down again. "I think I can follow."

"What?" Randy asked in confusion

"Explain it to me."

Randy sighed tiredly as she dropped in the chair, unopened beer still in hand. "Jesus, you want me to just give you a video tape? Probably be a lot easier."

"No. I want you to explain how a twenty-two year old girl gets off on bein' tortured. How the boy I've known since preschool does that to the girl he loves," Gemma hissed. "I wanna know what the _fuck_ is wrong with you!"

"I don't know!" Randy finally snapped. "Christ, you think I don't know there's somethin' fuckin' broken in my head? That Tig and me are fucked beyond all rational thought? I fuckin' know that, Gemma! What the fuck do you want me to fuckin' say, huh?

"You want some logical, thought out answer? Want me to cry about how shitty my mommy was, spill my guts, and give you some sort of reason? Huh? Is that really gonna make you feel any better? 'Cause trust me, Gemma, I know all the shit, and it doesn't make it any easier for me to deal with, alright? So just what do you want me to say? Is there really anything that's gonna make you any more comfortable with it? Anything I can say that isn't just gonna confuse the hell outta you!

"And at the end of the day, you know what? It isn't any of your fucking business! I love him, he loves me! So just butt the fuck out of my life!"

* * *

><p>Tig sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face as he walked out of the chapel, and over to the bar to get a drink.<p>

"Ya alright, brother?"

Tig scoffed, and handed his best friend a beer as the Scotsman sat down on the stool next to him. "This is a stupid plan. That damn kid is gonna get us all killed with his stupid, huggy huggy bullshit."

Chibs grinned. "Ain't exactly 'huggy huggy'," He said with a laugh. "He jus' wants ta avoid unnecessary bodies."

"Yeah well, this whole 'unnecessary bodies' thing is gonna make shit a lot more dangerous for the rest of us. Some of us actually got women to go home to." When he glanced over at Chibs, Tig frowned at the look on the other man's face. "What?"

"Uh… Gemma called me this mornin'. Wanted me ta… wanted me ta talk ta ya. 'Bout you an' Randy," Chibs said hesitantly.

"Oh Christ. Clay, that dirty bastard," Tig swore, taking a long swig of his beer.

"Look, man… I know ya two are okay. Gemma said somethin' about ya beatin' on her, an' I know that ain't true. But I know somethin's gotta be wrong for Gemma ta say somethin' 'bout it."

Tig growled under his breath. "Look, Chibs… I appreciate… whatever the fuck this is, but me and Randy? We're fine, alright?"

Chibs sighed, leaning back in the chair as he lit a cigarette. "Alright, brother. I jus'… Jus' want ya ta know, I'm here if ya need me, alright? I'm here for both of ya."

"I know, man. I appreciate it, I do… I just…" Tig rubbed the back of his neck, before sighing. "You ever uh… You ever been with a broad who… who liked… rough shit?"

Chibs' eyebrows rose slightly, as he took another sip of his beer, nodding, before saying, "Aye. I think we've all run into 'em every now an' then. Why?" At Tig's pointed glance, Chibs frowned, and then understanding dawned on him. "Oh! Oh… Oh shite."

"Yeah."

"That's uh… That's… Aw, hell, who am I kiddin'… Ya mus' be as happy as a pig in shite, aye?"

Tig rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah, fuck-head. I feel just great roughin' up a five foot, hundred pound twenty year old. Makes me feel all manly and shit."


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Alright, so firstly, anybody who reads this has K. Holtzman to thank. I had just about given up on this, and writing in general for the last month or so, due to various personal issues. But an awesome, amazing -and yes, ego-boosting- review from her inspired me to take a shot at this again. For anyone who's interested, I'm also starting on my other SOA fics,_ Ridin' Through This World_, and _What Lies Beneath_. So for those too, you have K. Holtzman to thank.

Ahem, anyways, this is fairly short yes, but I'm already starting on the next chapter. Just figured this was a good spot to end it. I can't promise quick updates, but I'm still working very hard to get back into the swing of things.

* * *

><p>"That's uh… That's… Aw, hell, who am I kiddin'… Ya mus' be as happy as a pig in shite, aye?"<p>

Tig rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah, fuck-head. I feel just great roughin' up a five foot, hundred pound twenty year old. Makes me feel all manly and shit."

Chibs frowned at the dejected look on his best friend's face. "Look… I dunno if there's anythin' I can do ta help. But uh… if there is… ya lemme know, aye?"

Tig sighed, as he absently pushed the condensation from his beer around the counter top. "Yeah. I just… Christ man, I don't know. And the fact that she wants it should make me feel better but…"

"Then why doesn't it? Hell, brother, if that's what _she_ likes, and that's what _you_ like, then where's the problem here?"

Tig was silent for a few minutes, before speaking, still staring at his now-empty beer bottle. "You didn't see her this morning, Scotty. I uh… She's got bruises. Bad bruises. And she's just so… so fuckin' small. It's like beatin' on a kid."

Chibs forced a smile to his face, knowing he was way out of his league, but determined to try and help. "Well… If she liked it, and she ain't complainin'… Sounds like ya both happy with what ya got. Why worry about it?"

"She's twenty-two Goddamn years old! She doesn't know any better. Hell, she went from step-daddy to johns to me! How the hell is she supposed to know if she really likes it or not?! She wouldn't know 'normal' if it came up and bit her in the ass!" He snapped, one arm flying out, and sending everything on the bar crashing to the floor.

Instantly, a hushed silence fell over the club, and for the first time, Chibs realized that some of the other Sons were still lingering in the Chapel. But all conversation had gone quiet, and all eyes had turned to Tig.

"The fuck are you lookin' at?!" Tig bellowed, glaring at Juice, Opie, Jax, and the prospect. When he got no answer, he stormed out into the yard, and a few moments later, Chibs heard his bike start.

He sighed, before realizing that the younger members were still staring, their gazes turned to him now. "If ya boyos got nothin' ta do, I'm sure I can find ya somethin'," He said angrily, standing up to stare down at them. "Get fuckin' lost, ya hear me?"

* * *

><p>Gemma drew back, startled in the face of the younger woman's rage. She took a moment to gather herself, before turning her coldest glare on Randy.<p>

"Now you listen here, you –"

"No, you fuckin' listen to _me_ for once, Gemma. I'm tired of kowtowing to you, so you can keep up your Queen Bitch act. I _love_ Tig, and he loves me. We're fuckin' happy together, and I'm not gonna have you _fuck_ that up because we don't fit in your neat little mold of what a couple should be, you pathetic old cow!" Randy spat, her green eyes blazing. "So get your shit, and get the fuck out of my apartment. Now!"

The fact that somebody had actually dared to speak to her like that had barely begun to sink into Gemma's brain, before Randy stormed out of the small kitchen. A few seconds later, she heard what she assumed to be the bedroom door slam shut, hard enough that one of the three pictures on the wall fell over.

Despite herself, Gemma walked over, and picked the now-broken frame up, staring at the photo, as if by staring, she could figure out where it'd went wrong. What she'd missed.

How could the young girl in the photo, wearing a tight, black leather bandage dress, gold wedding band newly placed on her finger, really be the woman who had just tore Gemma a new one? A bruised, battered young woman, so fucked in the head, Gemma couldn't begin to comprehend.

And worse… How could the smiling man, holding on tightly to his new bride, be the same man who had beaten that same bride, just two short year later? How could the man who had bruised his young wife like that, be the same boy who had protected Gemma from bullies in elementary school?

They'd looked so happy. The first time she'd seen Alex Trager looking happy in a long time.

She traced her fingers over the photo, careful to avoid the broken glass.

How had it all gone so horribly wrong?


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Alright, so... There's a very weird part in this... I'm trying something a little different. : / Please give me your honest opinion about it. Anyways, apologize for general awkwardness/weirdness... I'm working through my writer's block right now, and if I stop, I won't start again... So bear with me? : )

* * *

><p>Randy waited until she knew Gemma was gone, before breaking down, sobbing, on her bed.<p>

She knew it was fucked up. She knew it wasn't right, what she asked Tig to do to her. But she needed it. To be able to trust someone enough to fully give up control… Someone she trusted to hurt her just enough, to not cross that line.

She needed Tig. She loved him. For the first time in her life, she felt loved. Tig loved her, she loved him…

Why couldn't anyone just accept that and move on?

* * *

><p>Tig wasn't sure how long he drove, or even where he drove to. At some point, he pulled off to the side of the back road he was on, and parked the bike.<p>

What the hell was wrong with him? He was no better than his mother. Beating an innocent child. What did that make him? Knowing the pain it caused, knowing how fully it had broken him... How could he turn around, and do it to another child?

He knew what the years of abuse had done to him. While he would never admit it, the years with his mother had broken his mind, and his soul. He wasn't normal, and about a thousand miles in the wrong direction past 'fucked up'. And he was turning around, and repeating it.

Was he turning Randy into a female version of himself? Was he breaking her, like he'd been broken? God, how he'd been broken...

* * *

><p>1970, Charming Senior High School Locker Rooms<p>

_So lost. Broken. That's it: broken, maybe beyond repair this time._

"Alex?"

_Can't let her see. She can't see me like this. Not now, Gemma. Not now, just leave me be._

"Alex…"

_The compassion. The… pity. I can't take her pity too, not on top of everything else._

_She's touching my face. God, I can't her touch. I'm so dirty, so fucking filthy. Why is she touching me? Just leave me alone, for the love of God, please, don't fucking touch me._

"Alex, what happened, huh?"

_What happened? Did she really just ask me what happened? What the fuck does she think happened?_

_Can't tell her the truth, dumb shit. Can't tell her about Emily. Not now_

_Not ever._

_The words leave my mouth before I know what I'm saying._

"I fell. Fell… fell down."

_Her grip is tightening on my face. She's still touching me, why is she touching me? Her nails are digging into my skin, just like… No. No, I won't think about it. Not now. Not here, with her._

"Bullshit, Trager. You look like somebody smacked you with a frying pan, then let a cat loose on you. What the hell happened?"_ Pause. Pause. Pause. _"Alex, are you here?"

_No more pauses. She's talking. Talking to me. Why? Why won't she leave me alone? Doesn't she understand, I'm dirty? Fucking disgusting. Can't wash it off; not enough water. Never enough soap and water. Crawling over my skin. Like oil. Creeping over every inch of me._

"Gemma… Please… Go."

_How am I still speaking? Can't even form a coherent sentence in my head._

_Practice. Lots of practice. Can't let people see me fall apart. Weakness. They see weakness. Can't show anything. Feed off it. Like sharks to blood, they feed off my weakness. Can't let them see what -_

* * *

><p>"Hey!"<p>

Tig was roughly jerked out of his reverie by the shout. Before he could think, he was shooting out with what would have been a devastating upper cut if Chibs hadn't pulled back sharply.

"The fuck, brother?!" The Scotsman demanded. "Jesus."

"Chibs? The fuck are you doin' here?!" Tig demanded, breathing hard.

"Came ta find _you_, ya stupid shit. Randy called; she was worried when she couldn't get a hold of ya."

Randy.

"She okay?"

Chibs shrugged as he lit a cigarette, leaning back against the van. Tig frowned a little, realizing he hadn't even heard the van pull up behind him.

"Dunno. 'Parently she had a… episode with Gemma."

"Episode? What the fuck does 'episode' mean?" Tig demanded, pushing off of his bike as he walked towards his best friend.

Chibs held his hands out in a placating manner. "Don't really know, Tiggy. Wasn't exactly privy ta what went down. All I know is, Gemma stormed in ta the chapel about an hour ago, an' ya Old Lady called me 'bout ten minutes after that."

Tig rubbed his temples with his fingertips, cursing quietly under his breath. "You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me." He turned back towards his bike, before spinning around again. "How the hell did you know how to find me? I didn't even know where I was goin'."

Chibs shrugged again as he moved around the front of the van. "When eva ya get pissed, ya head this way."

Tig glanced around, and realized with a start he was standing in front of the field where the dilapidated farm house he'd grown up in had once stood.


End file.
